‘So do I. She bought us all drinks at the pub last night. I’m sold. Do you know what Keane’s up to?’
‘I heard he’s going to some Greek island – selling his place here and planning to open a beach bar.’
‘The further away the better,’ I said with relief. ‘It doesn’t seem much like justice, though, does it? After everything he did, he gets to live the rest of his life in the sun.’
‘You know the legal route would have involved everyone we know in a complicated scandal,’ said Tom wistfully. ‘But what a scandal. Fleet Street would have been all over town. Still, it’s better this way. Everyone gets to keep their little secrets, and no more Keane. Even Haydon gets something out of it – a cushy little number at the media group’s head office. And I heard he got back together with his wife.’
‘I guess she’s forgiven him for his dalliance with Mia, then.’ I paused to sip my cocktail. ‘God, I can’t believe I fell for that. I should have known. Anything that dwells so fetishistically on femininity has to be written by a bloke.’
Tom laughed. ‘You could be right. Anyway, I’m dwelling fetishistically on your femininity right now. Shall we drink up and head downstairs?’
My heart skipped and pleasurable dread chilled me from head to toe.
Tom and I had been taking things easy since the big drama – waiting for the healing of his injuries and my post-traumatic stress. Anything kinky had been off limits. It was funny how experiencing real bondage made its fantasy counterpart somewhat less appealing.
But the spectre of Keane was well and truly banished, now I was picturing him with a sunburned face and a loud shirt, collecting glasses from boozed-up Brits abroad. There were thousands of miles between us. I was safe, and Tom was safe, and we were safest of all when we were together.
‘OK,’ I said, getting up to follow him.
Maria opened the dungeon door about half a minute after we knocked.
‘Goodness, I thought you were never coming,’ she said, looking us up and down with her customary sly smile.
‘My fault,’ said Tom. ‘First-class reportage can’t be rushed.’
‘Late and full of bullshit,’ said Maria. ‘I think you should be the one holding the whip tonight, Ella.’
‘Er…’ I said, rather wanting this interview to be over.
‘I’m teasing,’ she said, stroking my cheek. ‘I know that doesn’t work for you. Anyway, here are the keys to the kingdom, kiddies, and I wish you joy of it. Just clean up after yourselves before you leave.’
She handed a bunch of keys to Tom, air-kissed us both and click-clacked off towards Reception.
He locked the door behind us, took my hand and led me down the stairs.
‘I wonder if Louise dropped the stuff off?’
‘Stuff?’ I asked.
‘I went to Wanton Woman earlier and bought some bits and pieces for tonight. I mean, you can share floggers and collars and whatnot, but certain things need to be personal. If you catch my drift.’
‘What certain things?’ I said, although it was more of a yelp.
‘Intimate insertables,’ he said after some thought.
‘Oh, my God. What the hell have you got planned?’
‘Wait and see. Ah, yes!’ He went into the little bar area, where a quantity of brown paper bags waited on the seating. ‘Good old Louise. Right. I’m going to get changed in here. You can take –’ he peered into the bags, selected one and thrust it at me ‘– this and put it on out there.’
‘What is it?’ All I could see was tissue-wrapped bundles.
‘Do as you’re told and you’ll see,’ he said uncompromisingly.
I giggled with nerves and backed out of the little side room into the giant mirrored studio. Tom shut the door on me, leaving me and my myriad reflections to prepare.
I was expecting something lurid and whorish, but I was surprised by what he had chosen when I unwrapped a dress that was undeniably very short but also very pretty. It was white broderie anglaise, more like a nightdress than anything else, and, when I slipped it on and laced up the bodice, I saw in my reflection an old-fashioned milkmaid who’d been in some kind of scything accident and lost most of her skirt. The dress came with some white hold-up stockings, red-ribboned at the top, and a pair of red ballet slippers. I had never worn anything like it, and it was hard to recognise myself in the pale, dark-haired, cutesy-dressed person in the mirror.
Why would Tom have chosen this style? I couldn’t work it out. The lack of underwear seemed deliberate, so I took off my knickers and stood, waiting, wavering, quivering.